


Behind the Wall

by flecksofpoppy



Series: Poppy's Adventures in Night Ficcing [27]
Category: Shingeki no Kyojin | Attack on Titan
Genre: Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Gen, M/M, One Shot, Tumblr Ask Box Fic, Tumblr Prompt
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-07-15
Updated: 2016-07-15
Packaged: 2018-07-24 02:25:05
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,757
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7489659
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/flecksofpoppy/pseuds/flecksofpoppy
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Jean has an unexpected and slightly fateful encounter one night with a certain neighbor and very loud music.</p><p>Based on prompt: "Marco's bday. Jean works v hard & he wants to sleep peacefully, but this wknd M is having a noisy bday party. J, sleepy, grumpy & salty his handsome neighbour didn't invite him, knocks on his door like u won't get away with this cause you're hot!"</p>
            </blockquote>





	Behind the Wall

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Fujoshichan69](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Fujoshichan69/gifts).



Jean’s not one to ever turn down the music at a gathering, leave the party first, or hide in a corner. He knows he can be a little brash—at the ripe old age of 25, he figures admitting to a few faults is warranted—overall, he likes a good time.

However, what he doesn’t like is the way that a boisterous bassline is currently thumping through his wall and making his floor vibrate, given that he has an interview tomorrow for a job that would double his salary. It means walking away from his current position at a company he likes, so he has to be on top of his game not to fuck himself over by letting slip what he’s up to.

Needless to say, the thud of music blaring from the apartment next door is doing little to help him get his beauty rest, and he’s just about had it.

He tosses and turns, throws a pillow over his head, dons earplugs, but nothing can drown out the torturous, deep rhythm that simply seems to grow louder as the minutes crawl by. He needs to be up by six in the morning, and it’s already nearly midnight.

“At least have some fucking decent taste in music,” he grumbles into a pillow, scowling and feeling particularly wretched as he blinks heavily. He’s pretty sure it’s Lady Gaga playing now, but he’s too grumpy to admit that he likes the song.

_Boom boom boom._

If it was just a bed frame pounding against the wall, at least that’s something he could get off to. His neighbor is sort of hot, and although Jean has only met him a handful of times, he doesn’t mind picturing Marco Whatever-the-fuck-his-name-is—with those broad shoulders and strong arms—doing the nasty right on the other side of the wall.

Jean realizes this is a little creepy, but he figures it’s harmless as long as he keeps it to himself. He’s also willing to cut himself some slack, given that his own sex life is currently woefully lacking, despite his attempts to rectify the situation.

Hot or not, though, this is just ridiculous. If Jean blows his interview tomorrow, he’s blaming it on his neighbor.

More tossing and turning, more loud music; finally, Jean gives up, and not giving a rat’s ass, marches over to his neighbor’s door at precisely one in the morning, wearing nothing except a pair of light blue sleep pants patterned with sheep. 

His mother buys him clothes like he’s a kid; but they’re soft and comfy, and he’s too annoyed to be embarrassed.

Standing stalk straight in the hallway, shoulders squared in extreme annoyance, he gives a few sharp raps against the door with his fist. It’s in time with the music, and he scowls mightily, hoping that Marco Whatever-the-fuck-his-name-is can feel his righteous outrage without even looking through the peephole.

To his surprise, though, the door swings open, and a rather jovial—and obviously slightly drunk—face appears.

“Hi!” Marco greets his unexpected interloper brightly, grinning radiantly. He’s wearing a actual party hat and has some frosting on the side of his mouth; if Jean wasn’t already distracted enough by the unexpected cheerful greeting, now he finds himself slightly fixated on Marco’s mouth.

His neighbor has a very nice smile, very nice lips, and—

_Stop that._

“Can you turn that shit off?” Jean snarls, regaining his composure and glaring. “I have to get up at six a.m., and it’s a Tuesday.”

“Oh!” Marco looks downright mortified, eyebrows shooting up and dark eyes widening. “I’m so sorry! It’s my birthday, and um…” He shrugs a little, looking embarrassed still, and retreats back into the apartment to quickly to lower the volume on his speakers.

The thud of the bass dies immediately, and there are a couple disappointed groans from people who had been dancing in the living room around a corner that Jean can’t see past.

“It’s okay!” he informs the room cheerfully. “Have some more cake, everybody! It’s really late, and there’s a noise code in this building.”

There seems to be an agreeable shuffle and no more disappointed sounds, and then Marco returns to the door to face Jean again.

“I’m _really_ sorry,” he repeats, looking legitimately apologetic.

Jean’s not used to people simply admitting they’re wrong and acting on that conclusion immediately. He opens his mouth to reply, but then shuts it again, not knowing what to say. He’s still pissed, but the fire has died down.

Marco just stares at him, and then blushes a little as he suddenly realizes he has frosting on the corner of his mouth, wiping it away with his thumb.

God, he’s cute this close up. 

_Shut up, Kirschstein, you horny, sad bastard._

“Well,” Jean finally settles on as a suitable response, “if I fuck up this interview tomorrow…” But he suddenly doesn’t have the heart to say he’ll blame it on a little loud music, since Marco actually looks downright _guilty_. “Um,” he continues awkwardly, “well, you know, I won’t, so thanks for turning it off.”

Marco brightens and nods. “Yeah, you seem to have it all together!” he exclaims. “I saw that new couch you got delivered the other day. Wow, really nice!”

“Thanks for signing for it when I wasn’t here,” Jean replies sheepishly, suddenly feeling like a colossal tool for banging on Marco’s door like something was on fire, just because he was cranky. 

Marco smiles. “No problem.”

Well.

“So, um,” Jean continues awkwardly, looking back over at his own apartment door that he’d left ajar, “I guess I’m going to sleep.”

Marco gives him a little salute and a nod. “Good luck in your interview,” he says sincerely, smiling a little.

They just look at each other for a minute, until Marco finally blurts out, “I would’ve invited you tonight, but I wasn’t sure if that’d be weird since we’ve only met…”

“Three times,” Jean finishes. Oh, he’d remember that face anywhere.

“Yeah,” Marco agrees, cocking his head to the side thoughtfully. “One time on the elevator, when I first moved in.”

“Second time on the landing, when you dropped a bunch of that organic shit on the stairs,” Jean continues, laughing a little, hoping Marco doesn’t take offense at the description of his excessively yuppie grocery selection.

“And the third time, when I signed for the couch,” Marco finishes, and this time, he’s smiling at Jean in a way that almost seems… shy.

“And then the fourth, when I banged on your door,” Jean finishes wryly.

There’s a short, semi-awkward silence, until Marco breaks it. “I like your pants. Those look comfy.”

Jean raises an eyebrow, but he seems completely sincere. 

Okay, then.

“Yeah.”

“So… I’ll see you around?”

“Yeah,” Jean murmurs, suddenly having no desire to return to bed alone.

“Sorry again about the music,” Marco says for the gazillionth time.

Jean just shrugs, shaking his head. “No big deal.” He gives Marco an awkward, bro-like clap on the shoulder as he adds, “‘Night, man.”

“Good night, and good luck!” Marco declares with a nod. “I’m sure you’ll ace your interview!”

Who the fuck is this nice, rational, and sincerely encouraging to a relative stranger?

Answer: Marco Whatever-the-fuck-his-name-is, apparently.

Jean gives a wan smile, and then finally retreats back to his own door into the pleasantly dark bedroom—a welcome reprieve from being awake, since he’s legitimately exhausted—and falls asleep more quickly than he planned.

When he wakes up again, though, his heart immediately speeds up, and the first thing that slams into his panicked brain is that he didn’t set his alarm.

And it’s not paranoid panic, since he really didn’t.

However, as he rolls over to wildly fumble for his phone to check the time, he suddenly hears a loud banging at his door. It has urgency, as if the police were called in or there’s a fire, but no one is yelling at him to open up.

He tumbles out of bed, groaning in confusion, especially once he realizes that it’s actually just before six when he looks at the time.

When he swings the door open, though, he’s surprised to see Marco standing there, fully dressed, with what appears to be a fancy espresso cup full of something that smells _amazing_.

“I figured,” he says nervously, biting his lip and not meeting Jean’s eyes, “that since I kept you up, the least I could do was be your alarm clock, just in case.”

Jean blinks; he’s not good at being subtle this early in the morning. “I forgot to set my fucking alarm.”

The white ceramic cup is promptly pushed into Jean’s hand, and Marco smiles. “I’ve done that before, so I’m glad I knocked.”

Jean just stares, looks down at the cup in his hand and takes a sip, and then looks back up at Marco. “That’s good,” he says dumbly. Then, without thinking, continues, “I’m glad you knocked, too.”

Marco smiles warmly, as if he’s been holding back his delight at being in Jean’s presence, and nods. “Would you be interested in lunch later? A good luck charm for after your interview?”

When Jean doesn’t immediately answer, and takes a long sip of the espresso, Marco immediately reneges and looks embarrassed. “Sorry if that was too forward!” he exclaims nervously, taking a step back. “I didn’t—”

“That’d be really cool.”

Jean is still looking anywhere except Marco, especially now that he’s the one blushing, and yawns to cover his own bashfulness.

He’s much rather eat lunch involving real, human interaction with his cute neighbor than simply wallow in fantasies about Marco’s sex life.

They agree on a time, and Jean offers to bring a bottle of wine if Marco makes the food. 

When he gets back that afternoon, feeling triumphant after acing his interview, he throws on his sheep pants and heads over to Marco’s apartment for lunch.

He learns that same afternoon that Marco’s last name is Bodt, he has a cat named Lady Gaga, and he can make a mean sandwich.

A few weeks later, when he doesn’t get the job, Jean learns that he has the makings of a great friendship with Marco when they sit around together, watching shitty movies and drinking celebratory champagne for the hell of it.

And by the end of the year—after Jean has become cat sitter extraordinaire and there’s a permanent indentation in his couch from where Marco always sits during their movie marathons—he finally learns what Marco’s lips taste like.

**Author's Note:**

> I have a [tumblr](http://flecksofpoppy.tumblr.com/)! :D


End file.
